Emakume
by Hyakurin9
Summary: UPDATED. Beach Head and Cover Girl are sent down to south Florida to investigate a problem the Coast Guard is having with Cuban gunboats in the Caribbean...and find much more than they bargined for. Please R & R.
1. Prolog: Street Fighting Man

Emakume  
  
This is my first GI Joe fan fic, so take that into consideration. Criticism welcome. I do not own GI Joe.  
  
-  
  
Prolog: Street Fighting Man  
  
Ev'rywhere I hear the sound of marching, charging feet, boy  
  
'Cause summer's here and the time is right for fighting in the street, boy  
  
Well then what can a poor boy do?  
  
-  
  
03:25 Zulu  
  
Somewhere off the coast of the Florida Keys, International Waters.  
  
The light chop on the water lapped against the hull of their boat in steady soft pats. Like the water was gently stroking the fiberglass beneath their feet. The pitch black of the night and the sky choked with stars reminded him of home, of the country that seemed a million miles away. The smell of his mother's cooking suddenly came to him, like it floated in on the ocean breeze.  
  
"Where is this guy, Michelena? I thought he said he'd be here by 3, he's nearly a half an hour late," he looked down at the man who spoke, his friend since they left the old country.  
  
"Keep your panties on, Soroa, he'll be here," the man across from him was relaxed, arms wrapped around the side of the boat, gently rocking with the waves. "What's the signal, Michelena?"  
  
He still stood, eyes focused out into the darkness ahead. "Three flashes.... We're supposed to do the same to let him know it's us."  
  
The mechanical hum of something unseen made it's way toward them from out in the distance. It had to be him; no one came along these waterways at three o'clock in the morning. But then again, cocaine and ecstasy came into ports this way as well. Whoever was out there could easily be from some cartel in South America.  
  
Flashes.  
  
One.  
  
Two.  
  
Three.  
  
It was him.  
  
Michelena moved and took hold of the fog light that sat beside his knee. He could finally be out of it all. Put the past behind him. Not just for himself, but for his family, for his friends who were in the boat as well. He could finally wash his hands and sleep well at night.  
  
Flashes.  
  
One.  
  
Two.  
  
Three.  
  
He smiled. They opened fire. 


	2. Log 1: Miami

Emakume  
  
Log 1: Miami  
  
Says I'm too dumb to fuck  
  
To dumb to fight  
  
To dumb to save  
  
Well, maybe I don't need no angel at all  
  
It looks like darkness to me, oh  
  
Drifting down into Miami  
  
-  
  
00:25 Zulu  
  
United States Coast Guard Air Station: Miami; Opa-Locka, Fl. USA  
  
The sound of the approaching soldiers footsteps was lost in the deafening swing of the chopper's blades. Orange jumpsuits bright in the inky blackness of the night; accented by the lane lights on the ground and what could be seen from the control tower behind them. They packed into the Dolphin and were off the ground before the doors were slid shut.  
  
They were called down there to investigate the cause of several maritime incidences that were starting to chalk up to be something much bigger. And though it could be nothing more than a few coincidences, the US Coast Guard called in for aid in the investigation. More so to cover their own ass, the waters surrounding south Florida have been politically volatile since the Kennedy Administration in the 60's. Most of the problems having to do with Cuba, but recently the island nation of Haiti has been a source of conflict as well, both on the water and with the people who live on the peninsula. And due to their position between the government and the people whom they encounter out on the water, the Coast Guard wasn't an organization that was highly liked.  
  
And so a few members of GI Joe were sent down for reconnaissance.  
  
Cover Girl found herself sandwiched between Beach Head and a young Ensign who was hastily finishing up strapping his gear on. Tonight's outing had come as a surprise. She and Beach Head had only recently arrived at Opa- Locka airport a few hours ago, and shit was already starting to hit the fan. She looked up at the young woman in front of her, Lieutenant Junior.... she squinted to read the name embroidered on her jumpsuit, Ruiz. The girl smiled at her faintly to which Courtney returned. Ruiz ran a hand over her thick black curly locks, pushing the few strands that hung in her eyes back and out of her face.  
  
"We really appreciate you all coming down here," she had to speak a bit louder than usual over the sound of the helicopter's blades.  
  
Both Beach Head and Cover Girl nodded.  
  
"Where are we headed?" Wayne's accent was thicker when he yelled.  
  
"Southwest, were rendezvousing with officers from the Key West branch, just south of Marathon," she answered; it was the way she pronounced her 'th's' that spoke of her decent.  
  
"What's the problem?" Courtney questioned.  
  
"We're not sure. A civilian boat was found washed up on the beach. The tags suggest the owners are from Biscayne, so Key West asked us to come out."  
  
"Any idea what happened to them?" Wayne pushed further.  
  
Ruiz laughed, "this is Florida, the Caribbean, any number of things could have gone wrong out on the water. Especially right now with Hurricane James coming up through the Lesser Antilles."  
  
-  
  
01:03 Zulu  
  
Marathon Key, Fl. USA  
  
The Dolphin landed in a small mangrove clearing just a few meters from the beach. When the Miami-Dade Coast Guard officers arrived on the scene they were greeted by both Key West officers and Monroe County Sheriff deputies. The area was lighted by huge spotlights and the whirling red and blue of the police cars just a few yards off from the taped off beach. The nineteen- foot open fishermen laid in two pieces side by side, it's hull and canopy riddled with bullet holes and scorch marks from an obvious fire.  
  
Wayne pulled his balaclava up so that it only covered his forehead as he sat on his hunches, running his eyes over the bullet holes.  
  
Military issue.  
  
"I know what you're thinking," Sneeden snapped his head up to meet the gaze of another man. "We've had a problem with this very same thing for the passed two weeks," he squat down next to the Ranger before extending a hand, "Lieutenant Commander Brickle," the two men shared a curt handshake before returning their attention to the boat.  
  
"Have you determined a cause?"  
  
"The last one was reported by a couple headed for the Bahamas three days ago. They stated that they saw what looked like a military vessel driving off. The report before that one said the same thing," Brickle trailed off as he spoke.  
  
"Cuban gunboats in international waters."  
  
"Precisely."  
  
"Sir?" the sound of Ruiz's voice brought both men to their feet.  
  
"What is it Ruiz?" he blinked against the light behind her.  
  
"Sir, we've just run the information on the boat and what we could find on the bodies. The boat was licensed to Mr. Alejanro Soroa," the man's name rolled off her tongue in perfect pronunciation.  
  
"And the others?"  
  
"Irune Michelena and Victor Gernika. All three men were reported missing two days ago."  
  
"Good work, Ruiz."  
  
"Thank you, sir."  
  
Ruiz saluted and turned to walk back toward the yellow tarps laid out on the sand. Her heart sank a little as the knowledge of what was under them ran through her mind. It didn't matter how many times she was exposed it, it always bothered her, and it always made her stomach turn over. If it hadn't been for the memory of being a child plucked off of an island in a country she didn't know, she wouldn't have joined the Coast Guard.  
  
She spotted Cover Girl near the bodies.  
  
"Corporal Krieger?" the bombshell turned around at her name. "May I have a word with you?"  
  
"Not a problem, what is it?" Ruiz put a hand on her arm and pulled her forward, pulled her away from the others.  
  
"I know you and your partner were sent here from GI Joe because of the events that have taken place these last few weeks. And though the evidence we do have points towards Cuba," she said the name of her homeland rather sadly, "I don't think we're looking in the right direction."  
  
Courtney shifted her weight and placed her hands on her hips in contemplation, "do you have some sort of theory?"  
  
Ruiz looked upward, her eyes on the stars above; she inhaled the salt air around her and sighed. How to put this, how to make herself sound like she knew what she was talking about? She returned her gaze to Krieger and shoved her hands into the pockets of her jumpsuit.  
  
"My boyfriend is a Vice cop in Miami, and, he was working on a few of the cases related to this one before it became the military's concern. It's not in his reports, but everyone of the people killed were Basque."  
  
"What?"  
  
"Listen, I know I'm going to get in trouble if we keep talking like this, but if you don't believe me," she handed the brunette a card, "call my boyfriend, he'll tell you everything you need to know."  
  
The Cuban's name was called from somewhere behind them, but her eyes were on Krieger's, and they were pleading with her. Ruiz finally broke their gaze and ran off toward the young man whom called her.  
  
Basque, huh?  
  
The ex-model tromped through the sand back toward Beach Head who was still studying the boat with a fixed gaze. She placed a hand on his shoulder to which he ignored.  
  
"What do you want, Barbie doll?"  
  
She turned the card in her hand over several times with her fingers. The stiff, but thin paper of it bending as she willed. It took her a moment, her eyes having to adjust to the lighting, to read what was written on it: Jonathan Tuttle, Miami Vice. She quickly shoved it into a pocket in her BDUs before she spoke.  
  
"I just found something we might wanna check out."  
  
-  
  
Emakume- (Basque) Young girl 


	3. Log 2: Rie Y Llora

Emakume  
  
Log 2: Rie Y Llora  
  
Todo es tan relativo  
  
No es que recuerde, si no que no olvido  
  
Eso es el perdon, recordar sin dolor  
  
-  
  
17:17 Zulu  
  
Miami Jai Alai, Miami; Hialeah, Fl. USA  
  
The place was pretty shady. The drive over from Opa-Locka Airport was long, and the neighborhoods they drove through made them nervous. Poor, dirty and industrialized, the fronton sat on a shitty piece of land that was surrounded by storage units and garages; the moving neon lights of Jai Alai players on the outside of the building were either broken or hard to see, overshadowed by the lights from the Pink Pussycat Club just ahead. Inside they were bombarded with the stale smell of cigarette and cigar smoke; the haze from it even worse. The mutual clerks looked bored, and the only ones inside where the court laid were degenerate gamblers and families of the players. Yeah, this place was pretty shady.  
  
She slouched in her chair, noisily munching on some tasty fried treat she'd picked up from a vendor. She'd forgotten what it was called, chu-something or other.  
  
Courtney glanced up at Wayne, he'd been on edge since they'd entered Hialeah, or rather, the section of Hialeah they were in. She could understand that though, the crime rate here was out of hand and the police officers assigned to the area were just as dirty as the people who lived in it. But he needed to lighten up.  
  
In front of them the first game of the night was nearly over, she hadn't paid much attention to it, not after she'd spent the first five minutes trying to figure out where the ball was. It moved to damn fast and they sat too far away for her to keep an eye on it. Not that she understood what was going on anyway.  
  
"I don't get this game," she blurted out, pieces of churro nearly flying out of her mouth.  
  
"What is there to get? They just throw the ball against the wall and catch it," he didn't sound too impressed with what was going on in front of him.  
  
"No shit Sherlock, but there's a point system that I can't figure out. And why the hell are the players wearing two different numbers?"  
  
Wayne crossed his arms, "how the hell should I know?" He shifted in his seat, "so, where is this guy?"  
  
"I dunno, Sonny Crockett said he'd meet us here at 17:00."  
  
"Sonny Crockett? I thought his name was John Tuttle."  
  
Courtney looked at him incredulously, "did you not watch Miami Vice?!"  
  
"What's Miami Vice?"  
  
She gave him a sideways glance that she was happy he didn't see before crumbling the wax paper bag in her hand. She sighed and opened the night's program she'd picked up on their way in and looked over the names and numbers, the averages and other statistics inside of it. Some of the names listed she didn't know how to begin to pronounce. Those weren't Spanish names.  
  
"Oh my God...."  
  
"What?"  
  
"Wayne, look at this," she handed him the pamphlet and pointed to the names listed in the scratched section, "Michelena, Soroa, and Gernika.... those are the men who were-"she stopped talking as someone moved down the aisle in front of them.  
  
The man was tall and lean, face a bit gruff but handsome. His skin was brown from the sun and he looked darker than he was in the low lighting of the room. He sat down in a seat just in front of them, sitting between the two really.  
  
Sonny Crockett?  
  
"It's a beautiful game, don't you think?" he voice was deep and smooth. "The fastest game on the earth."  
  
"I dunno how it works."  
  
"Too bad, bet on Cachin II there and you'll make bank. The guy never loses," he never looked back at them when he spoke. He just slouched down and rested his arms on the backs of the seats beside him.  
  
They watched the players in silence. Each man on the concha moved and jumped with a fluidity that seemed unnatural; using the cesta as a weaved extension of their bodies. The crack of the pelota on the front wall and the swoop of their cestas was the only sound in the entire room. A player balked and the hand full of people in the room, including the man in front of them, clapped.  
  
"Good game," he stated; he could feel the eyes of the man behind him burning a hole through his head. "It's a Basque game, Jai Alai, I mean. They brought it with them when they immigrated to this country.... Well, more like, gamblers brought the game here, the players followed with the promises of money and fame."  
  
"Did they fulfill their promises?" Courtney humored him.  
  
"In the 80's.... now, well, it looks like they're all getting knocked off, right?"  
  
"Tuttle," Beach Head said matter-of-factly.  
  
The man in front of them raised a hand and waved slightly.  
  
"You took your sweet time getting here," his southern drawl sounded scolding.  
  
John laughed, "I don't think there's a single person in this town that understands the concept of punctuality."  
  
"That's not a sufficient excuse, Tuttle, if-"  
  
"What information do you have for us, if you don't mind," Krieger cut Sneeden off to which he shot her a dirty look.  
  
John shifted in his chair, getting himself comfortable and eyes fixated on the start of the second game. "Most of the men out on the concha right now are one of three nationalities: Mexican, American, and Basque. Most people don't know who the Basque are or where they come from, mostly because the people themselves can't even really claim to be who they are."  
  
"That's because the Basque countryside is only simply that, they're not a sovereign nation."  
  
"You're right sir. However, culturally, genetically, and linguistically, they are not Spaniard or French, they are their own unique people. They were the Basque before Rome thought to invade Gaul, and defeated them when they did. Since Europe became what it is today they have pleaded to have their own land, to be their own country, but neither France nor Spain will give it to them."  
  
"What is this leading to, Mr. Tuttle, if you don't mind me asking?"  
  
"It all leads to this, Gorgeous. For nearly forty years the Basque have maintained a movement within their people, they have created what they call Euzkadi Ta Askatasuna-"  
  
"Basque Fatherland and Liberty, but what does a terrorist organization in Spain have to do with Cuban gunboats?" The man hadn't quite piqued his attention yet.  
  
"Everyone who's died out there was a citizen of either Spain or France. All in this country on work visas or had already been naturalized. All of which, were defective members of the ETA."  
  
"I still don't see the connection," Courtney stated.  
  
Tuttle was quiet for a moment; he was watching the game-taking place in front of him. He grinned as he looked at the score and down at his tickets. "In '98 the ETA declared an indefinite ceasefire to which they didn't oblige. The summer of 2000 was the bloodiest summer in the history of the ETA and every year is increasingly worse. Murder isn't the answer to getting what you want, but these people are on their last leg in finding independence."  
  
"Are some sort of sympathizer?"  
  
John laughed at Wayne's comment, "not at all. What I'm getting to is the fact that Spain cannot handle them anymore. They have too many followers now, they're getting far more violent then they were forty years ago. They have a new head, a second faction that is much more powerful and vindictive. A large number of separatists don't want anything to do with what they are trying to accomplish now. It's no longer about claiming their homeland, but just raw violence and take over."  
  
"So their knocking off defectives to cover their ass...."  
  
"Exactly, Beautiful. Those gunboats aren't Cuban, but they're a good cover," he winced as he watched the game, watched his bet loose. He quickly tore his tickets in half and dropped them on the floor. "However, that's all I know. If you need anymore information, start with the guys who played with Michelena, the Geotze brothers are a good place to start, they've played with him since '82."  
  
-  
  
22:32 Zulu  
  
Locker room, Miami Jai Alai: Miami; Hialeah, Fl. USA  
  
The locker room was filled with a mixture of sweat and soap, the steam from the showers making the dressing area humid and damp. The voices within it were confused in a strange mix of good humor and multiple languages, the metal crack of lockers being opened and shut louder than anything else. The last game of the night had been played only a short time ago, Cover Girl and Beach Head had sat in the arena awaiting the last game, the Geotze brothers were in the last doubles match and the pair had no choice but to wait. In the time that they spent sitting there an older gentlemen had been kind enough to explain the basics of the game to them, and though Courtney had found the talk enlightening Wayne could have cared less. He was more concerned with the mission at hand.  
  
"Woman on the floor!" the announcement had sent some into a scramble to either put on their clothes or cover up with a towel, the rest didn't seem to care.  
  
"Kent and Denny Geotze?" she saw two heads perk up when she said those names. "I'm assuming that's you two?"  
  
"That's us," the man that answered was tall, about Wayne's height, but with a much smaller build. His thin dark hair was wet and hung limply on his head, his nose and angular features were distinctly Germen, but his dark eyes and complexion said otherwise. His skin was dark, though not from exposure to the sun. "I'm Dennis," he held his hand out to the soldiers in front of him, "this is my brother Kent," he indicated with a nod in the younger man's direction. "What can we do for you?"  
  
Cover Girl looked up at Beach Head in a moment of loss for words before she turned back toward them.  
  
"We understand that you and Kent here are good friends with Michelena."  
  
"We went through Obrea Jai Alai together, played here and at just about every fronton in the US with him. He's a good guy.... So who are you and why are you looking for him?" there was something in his eyes that told her he was protective of his fellow Jai Alai players.  
  
She took a breath, "We just need some information."  
  
"You guys spooks?" Dennis questioned.  
  
"Shit...." Kent grunted before moving toward his locker.  
  
"He was scratched from tonight's line up, any reason why?" the two men cocked an eyebrow as the big man finally spoke.  
  
"Yeah, he's on vacation with a few of the other players right now," Kent answered. He was a bit shorter than his older brother, his skin tawnier, and his hair lighter. Had they not been side by side she would have never guess them to be related.  
  
She shoved her hands into the pockets of her tattered bomber jacket. Vacation? "Any idea as to where he was going?"  
  
"He said something about it being a Basque thing, wouldn't let us in on it. Did he do something wrong?" she could see the concern lurking in those eyes.  
  
Beach Head perked up, "Basque thing?"  
  
"Yeah, they all kinda stick together. Survival technique I would assume."  
  
"Is there anyone else who would know about this 'Basque thing'?"  
  
The brothers looked at one another and shared a passing moment that only siblings can experience. Denny moved toward his locker as his brother stepped forward. "If there's one person who says they're more Basque than Obrea, then they're a friggin' liar. He still teaches at Amateur Jai Alai in NMB, find him and he'll prob'ly know what they were talking about."  
  
- 


	4. Log 3: Ask DNA

Emakume  
  
Log 3: Ask DNA  
  
When the truth seems so far way  
  
Buddha loves you and Jesus saves  
  
You need answers for your dismay  
  
-  
  
15: 17 Zulu  
  
Amateur Jai Alai: Miami; North Miami Beach, Fl. USA  
  
He slid out of the jeep, the leather seat groaning under his weight as he moved. He could hear the passenger side door slam shut before he closed his own. He watched his partner come around to the front of the vehicle, his eyes nearly closed against the midday sun. How the hell could she wear that bomber jacket in this weather? For that matter how the hell can these people live in this heat day in and day out? Sure, it got plenty hot in Alabama, he remembered the sweat on his back when he mowed the lawn in the summer as a child, but at least there was a reprieve from it for a good 6 months. And at least there were trees in Alabama to sit under and cool off, Miami was a fuckin' concrete jungle.  
  
Cover Girl gave him a look that suggested she was tired of waiting, "are we going in or are we just going to stand around outside?"  
  
North Miami Beach, like just about everywhere in the Magic City, was divided in two; one side where the wealthy lived, the other urban ghetto. Amateur Jai Alai sat somewhere on the line between the two. The building itself was ugly and boring, just a single, large gray rectangle that looked as though it had some sort of second story. The words 'Amateur Jai Alai' written in big black block letters on it's façade. Thirty years ago it said 'Orbea's School of Jai Alai' or something of that nature. Of course thirty years ago this place was packed with the young boys who would someday grow up to be the heroes of the concha, the men who made Jai Alai the sensation that it was in 80's. Too bad it was only a fad.  
  
The inside held a smell that was unfamiliar. The sharp smell of rubber, the lighter smell of some sort of straw, and then something else, the mixture made for something that was unique to the sport. The foyer was somewhat small and narrow; a head of them and against the left wall was a desk, an antique cash register on its surface and a small freezer behind it. Beside the desk sat a large, rot iron cage that was roped off with a sign that read in both English and Spanish 'I bite'. The offending creature sat on its roof, a large, loud scarlet macaw that screeched when they walked through the door. Either side of the room held a single doorway, each were open, and from them came the various sounds of people, talking and yelling, some clear, most muffled.  
  
"Where should we start?"  
  
Beach Head thought about her question for a moment, more so because he was still taking in the sight of the room. He moved toward the door on the right side of the room and Cover Girl followed.  
  
Inside lay several half courts, fenced off from the thin aisle that ran down the center of them, two on each side and all in use at the moment. The men on the small courts ranged the gambit in age. The old guys played together, perhaps ex-pros looking for a workout and a way to relive their days as sports superstars. But their game had a friendliness to it that suggested their camaraderie with one another. The young guys, on the other hand, played like it was a game for their manhood, a statement that had to be made. The testosterone was so thick it could be cut with a knife. The last two courts were completely different. Children took instruction from their elders, standing and moving as they were told, running after the ball without any seriousness in their faces. They were having fun, but learning at the same time. The way it should be.  
  
"Got a visual on him?" Wayne's accent sounded strange in the mix of the room.  
  
"No."  
  
They moved to the next room, nearly attacked by the parrot on their way over.  
  
The other side of the building was completely different, inside was one, large, full court, stadium seats, something like the arena at Miami Jai Alai. The crack of the pelota echoed throughout the structure. Were the men in other room playing with a different ball?  
  
"FUCK!" the comment was followed by a barrage of others.  
  
"Ah, see, that's the same move you always try to do! Follow through with your arm, Joey. I lost a trifecta on you because you didn't follow through!"  
  
"Shut-up, Orbea!"  
  
Bingo.  
  
The Ranger looked down at his fellow Joe who nodded in return. This was the man they were looking for. He was older, probably in his sixties, white hair thick and tussled on his tan head. His eyes were dark and sharp, like a bird of prey, but held a friendliness to them that was uncanny. He sat on one of the benches in the room, steadily stitching together what looked like a ball.  
  
"Orbea?"  
  
He turned around at the sound of his name.  
  
"Yes?"  
  
Courtney sat down beside him, pulling her jacket from her shoulders as she did so. She smiled at him, and he returned it.  
  
"Is there something I can do for you?" his accent was heavy but his words were clear.  
  
"We just need to ask you a few questions, if that's alright," Wayne took a seat behind the older gentlemen.  
  
"Michelena."  
  
He'd hit the spot. He knew he had, he could tell by the way the two visitors bodies tensed suddenly. He'd expected someone to come around asking questions, after what he'd seen on TV. It had brought him to tears, but he had a school to run, people in his life who depended on his strength, and so he told himself he'd be strong when they came to ask him questions.  
  
The old man still hadn't looked at either of them; his hands were busy stitching the ball. His wrinkled fingers moved with a sense of ritual execution.  
  
"You make your balls by hand?" she was trying to recover what was lost in that moment.  
  
"All pelotas are made by hand. They can not be mass produced sadly, it would make my life easier," he chuckled at the end of that. A sort of hardy, happy sound.  
  
"They probably last longer, since they aren't cheaply made."  
  
"A pelota lasts about fifteen minutes in play...."  
  
"Jesus-"she spat that rather strangely; like she said it before she realized where she was.  
  
"I know."  
  
It got quiet again. The constant babble from the men playing in front of them and the sound of the pelota bouncing sharply against the court and wall sounded far away in the silence that engulfed them on the bench. He was waiting for them to talk; Wayne sensed that, old men were like that. They had a code of honor to uphold, no speaking unless spoken to, that's how it always worked. That was why old men stooped like they did; their shoulders were heavy with the weight of the secrets they had to keep.  
  
"Why were they on that boat?" Beach's accent made the 'h' disappear in his 'why'.  
  
"The question should be, 'what would drive all these men to be on that boat?'" Orbea said that simply.  
  
"Denny and Kent told us you were the man to see about that."  
  
"Hmm, how are they I wonder, they haven't stepped into my school in a while. You know, I used to tell them everyday how lucky they were for their height, that's really the only reason why so many Americans can play, they're about a head taller then they other men," he was stalling.  
  
"Orbea...." It was the way she said his name that made the old man realize he couldn't dodge them anymore.  
  
He sighed and set the pelota in his hand down on the bench. The needle and twine from his stitch work hung loosely from the goat skin that made up the outside. He clasped his wither hands together, sharp eyes focused out on the concha. He took a breath, probably a bit too shallow for what he had to say, and leaned forward, placing his clasped hands in front of his mouth, elbows on his thighs. The men moving in front of him blurred in his recollection.  
  
"When I came to this country, when all the old men who practice this sport moved to this country, there was no ETA. There were no men rioting in the street for independence. Yes, we felt that we deserved to be on our own, but not to this extreme," Courtney tried to look into his face, but it seemed as though a shadow had cast over it. "We were like...." He sat upward slightly, "you Americans. Your last names might say you are German, but your heart, your blood screams America, we were the same, just Basque."  
  
He sank again.  
  
"Michelena came to me years ago, trying to get me to join his cause, join the Euzkadi Ta Askatasuna, but I refused. When the second faction took hold, he tried to get out, but they are not so forgiving. To defect is to die; the only way to be sure there are no rats. He was safe for a while, at least, he was safe here in the States. He told me a week ago, about someone who contacted him about clearing his name.... I told him not to go.... Who knew it was really them...." He trailed off, eyes franticly searching the room. "Michelena, they say he was like Michael Jordan of Cesta Punta...."  
  
"Did he say who it was who called?" Wayne couldn't bear watching the weight on the man's shoulders start to get the better of him.  
  
"No. But, I do know someone, someone who might know what happened."  
  
-  
  
22:48 Zulu  
  
South Pointe: Miami; South Beach, Fl. USA  
  
Fuckin' tourists.  
  
Whenever a prostitute washes up in the Miami River in a suitcase a tourist finds it. When someone's shot in a street over drug money it's always a tourist who witnesses it. And of course, now, when someone washes up dead on the beach it's a tourist who found him. He hated this town.  
  
Tuttle spat shells from his sunflower seeds onto the sand at his feet. He chewed on them calmly as the crew in front of him moved franticly. Everyone in this town moved so fast, ran their lives at breakneck speed, but not him. He stood back and watched, observed, maybe that was why he was so damn good at his job. Or maybe he should stop listening to his girlfriend's boasts.  
  
He spotted them moving through the throng of people lining the taped off beach, the muffled sound of club music in the distance and boats out on the dark water. The pair stood starkly different against the others in the area. But military personnel always did.  
  
Cover Girl shoved her hands into the pockets of her bomber jacket.  
  
"My first time on South Beach and it's for a DOA."  
  
She swung her head over to her partner, "you didn't strike me as the kind of guy who would care, Wayne."  
  
"I hear Barbie dolls like you hang out here all day baking in the sun, I figured it was worth a look see," something like a smile tugged at the edge of his lips.  
  
Krieger made a face like she was going to say something lewd but the sight if Tuttle hanging around on the outskirts of the police tape cut her off. She moved passed her partner and headed toward the man.  
  
"I thought you said this was no longer a Vice concern," she watched him spit seed shells at the sand.  
  
Jonathan casually pointed toward the police cars just a few yards off, "if it's Dade County Sheriff's problem, it's my problem as well," he moved the cellophane bag in his hand around, crinkling it. "Have you been briefed yet?"  
  
"No, what's the situation?" Wayne looked back at the strangely routine mayhem in front of them.  
  
"Arriaga, another one of our Basque friends. He just retired from Jai Alai this passed season after taking a nice jaw altering hit to the face," Tuttle threw a few more salty seeds into his mouth.  
  
"Any idea how long he's been dead? I mean, how many more bodies are we going to find before these people realize what's going on?" Courtney said that in a way that suggested that her questions weren't directed to anyone in particular.  
  
"We won't know the time of death until he comes back from the coroner. It takes a bit of time when the body's been in the water for a duration of time," John spit his shells into the sand again.  
  
"Who found him?"  
  
Tuttle watched the goings on around him, "a bunch of stupid kids. Most of them tourists here with some friends from North Dade.... you know how it goes, kids on summer vacation smoking pot of the beach and drinking beers until they pass out on the sand," he chewed on another handful.  
  
"Talk about a buzz kill," the brunette mumbled that slightly.  
  
Wayne's cell rang.  
  
"Sneeden," he answered it indifferently.  
  
"A little birdie told me you need to see me," a smooth and emotionlessly sensual voice intoned, "The Delano Hotel, 00:00," she hung up.  
  
Beach Head quickly flipped his mobile closed. Cover Girl gave him a look, the 'who the hell was that?' look. He wondered sometimes how it was that she stayed alive being so damn nosey. But he couldn't ignore that look, not on her, but he wouldn't give her the satisfaction of a straight answer.  
  
"Who was that, Beach?"  
  
"Some sexy woman just asked me out on a date," for that he got the 'cut the bullshit' look. "It was Orbea's contact."  
  
-  
  
Sorry this chapter took so long in coming. Being a beer whore, I mean, Bartender and going to school has left me with little time to write. The next chapter won't take so long.  
  
-Hyakurin9 


	5. Log 4: The Singing Sea

Emakume  
  
Log 4: The Singing Sea  
  
The singing sea  
  
The talking trees  
  
Are Silent in a noisy way  
  
The stars are bright  
  
But give no light  
  
The world spins backward everyday  
  
-  
  
00:02 Zulu  
  
Lincoln Road: Miami; South Beach, Fl. USA  
  
The cab dropped them off on Lincoln Road, a few blocks from the hotel they were supposed to go to simply because the cab driver said it was worth walking down. In her modeling days Courtney had come to this place for a shoot, young and wide-eyed by the glitz and glamour all around her. The strip had changed since she was last here, but the overwhelming feeling it gave her was the same. She suddenly felt sorry for Wayne because she knew he'd hate it.  
  
The strip was lined with expensive boutiques offering Versace and Armani, Gharendelli chocolate and art galleries. And if it wasn't some over priced shop it was an equally over priced restaurant. Customers sat inside but most were under the large, heavy canvas umbrellas of various colors and designs outside, laughing and smiling, eating trendy sushi and drinking rainbow cocktails. All the while deep house, down tempo, acid jazz or salsa pumped through their speakers and into the streets.  
  
A head of them walked a group of five young women. Hair, honey blonde and brown skinned: they bodies clad in impossibly low jeans that sat snuggly on their hips and bikini tops. They laughed and bantered in Brazilian Portuguese owning the night sky and the street with their walk.  
  
"Does everyone in this town walk 'round naked?" Sneeden said that behind clenched teeth.  
  
"It's too hot here to wear clothes," Krieger answered his question, adjusting her blouse as she spoke.  
  
They eventually made their way through the throng of Miami nightlife and to Ocean Avenue. Just across the street sat the white washed art deco façade of The Lowe's, to it's right a shitty run down Walgreen's, the sidewalk in front of it dotted with bums and drifters. But that was Miami, the ghetto was always right beside luxury.  
  
The Delano was only a short jaunt from The Lowe's, the two only really separated by another hotel that was just as thin, tall and classy as the two. If not for hedges all three hotels would almost literally share one valet drive way. But it wasn't just hotels and run down shops on Ocean, the hard beat of trance and techno, the deep bass of hip hop and salsa roared from the clubs lining the Ave. The spotlights and electric of Club Space enticed the youth that partied down the street.  
  
Cover Girl stiffed at the glances from the intoxicated twenty-something's that passed her, the winks and blatant appreciation for her presence that very moment. And she scowled at the catcalls from young men dangling out of their speeding cars. But the fact that skinny girls in strapy heels and pleated jean skirts laughed and looked Wayne over as they passed erased it all from her mind. And the added satisfaction of hearing "Hey cowboy, how about a bull ride?" and the look that washed over her partner's face earned an out right laugh.  
  
What a town.  
  
-  
  
00:15 Zulu  
  
The Delano: Miami; South Beach, Fl. USA  
  
The pair moved up the large white block steps in front of the hotel, receiving a few greetings from the valet drivers standing dutifully outside. The front door was glass and billowy white curtains that hung down and moved with the ocean breeze, the inside a mixture of old world and modern design. The floors were a light colored wood, the wall cases the same color and texture. The furniture was either black or white, the seats sculpted into some nameless, trendy, modern shape. The foyer was long and narrow, the concierge desk to their left when they stepped in, and the whole thing separated into square spaces by the same billowy white curtains from outside. Deeper in sat a pool table and a small dance floor adjacent to it, the bar in the very back veiled by the curtains. People moved back and forth, moved inside or out onto the terrace, but all with colored cocktails in their hands.  
  
"Pretty posh for just some woman Orbea thought we should speak to," she said that as they moved toward the bar.  
  
"It would have been better if he'd given us a description of the broad."  
  
One drink wouldn't hurt them.  
  
They walked out onto the terrace; rot iron tables sat on red Spanish tile that was decorated in spots with white and blue. The grassy area that led back to the pool and outside bar was manicured and bright green in the lights that lined its edges. Large trees and sculptures hide most of what was closer to the water. Wayne dropped himself into one of the padded iron chairs, his beer instantly leaving a ring of water where he sat it.  
  
"You know what, I think this is Madonna's hotel," he watched her sip on her Mai Tai before he shrugged.  
  
"Hell if I know," the way he said that made the words all run together.  
  
Beach Head took another swig from his beer, the amber taste of his Michelob settling on his tongue. He needed a beer tonight. This little trip down south was mounting up to something much bigger than they had anticipated, and the fact that people were dying because of it bothered him. And all the while these people carried on with their lives. The sight of a dead body didn't horrify them like it should. Instead they all hung around like vultures once something looked like it might be dead. The idea that people are being murdered everyday due to some political group didn't seem to phase them, all they did was shake their heads in pity and went right back to what they were doing.  
  
Callused, because most of them came from the same kind of bullshit in whatever country they were from. And the natives just got used to it.  
  
Sneeden snapped his eyes up to a waiter whom was setting another beer down in front of him as well as another cocktail in front of Courtney.  
  
"We didn't order these," he said that dryly.  
  
"I know sir, but she did," he pointed toward a table behind him.  
  
Cover Girl shifted to the side of her chair to look passed Wayne who was already turned around. At the table sat a dark hared woman, her tresses cut in some deliberate haphazard chop; short and styled so that her bangs fell over one side of her face. She smiled, spreading her glossy lips, and raised a hand.  
  
It was her.  
  
The duo took a sit at her table.  
  
"How's the Magic City treating you?" the same voice from the phone call. She sipped on at her Jack Daniel's on the rocks.  
  
"Just fine, but I'm afraid not everyone has it so easy here," Krieger said that flatly, the woman responded to her by holding up her glass and taking another sip.  
  
"This is a pretty fancy place to live," Wayne spoke up.  
  
"Well, if you went to see Orbea at his school, then you know that not everyone in this town is fabulous. Not everyone can afford to live on the beach, shit, I only live her because I lost my house to Andrew."  
  
"Florida is a half state, after all-"  
  
"Not an ex-husband, lovely, the hurricane."  
  
Open mouth. Insert foot. She felt like an ass now. The woman at the head of the table felt the uncomfortable silence and quickly broke it.  
  
"I'm surprised it took this long for this to turn into a military concern."  
  
"It all has ties to the ETA, and any terrorist activity is the militaries concern," he took another swig of his beer.  
  
The woman sat upward in her chair and straightened her thin black blouse. She crossed her legs under the table and flicked her head backward to get her hair out of her eyes. At least these Joes were easier to deal with than the last two she'd given information.  
  
"If only it were purely the ETA who were the problem."  
  
"You're talking about the second faction?"  
  
"Not so much a second faction as much as a group that took over. They're dangerous and much more concerned with violence than Basque freedom."  
  
"Orbea said the same thing."  
  
"Orbea knows what he does because of Michelena, he doesn't know about the fifteen to twenty-six year olds they're recruiting and teaching the Palestine way of suicide bombing. He also doesn't know about their attempted assassination of the Spanish Prime Minister," she took another sip of her whiskey.  
  
"Why would the Basque allow this group to move in?"  
  
"Because they really don't have any power, this group gave them that, gave them weapons and brainwashed them to enhance their use of violence against the Spanish and the French. And I wouldn't doubt that they'd brainwash them into attacking others for more, unrelated political reasons," she had the Miami accent. It wasn't something that could be easily identified. She sounded like a northerner out of her element, the right kind of pronunciation, but with an extension of the vowels that was unique to south Florida.  
  
Wayne narrowed his eyes, "you know a lot for just a civilian."  
  
She smiled, "semper fi."  
  
Beach fell back in his chair.  
  
"I've dealt with you Joes before, though you two are much easier to deal with then the others."  
  
Cover Girl sat forward, "who did you give Intel to?"  
  
The woman ran her hands through her hair, pushing her bangs backward from her forehead. Courtney caught sight of a scar that was hidden before just above her right eyebrow. "I dunno, some Cajun and a sailor that was hornier than the drunk twenty-one year olds walking down Ocean."  
  
Ship Wreak and Gung Ho.  
  
Cover Girl nearly fell out of her chair, her laughter intense enough to bring tears to her eyes. The comment earned a near laugh from Beach Head who actually looked like he was holding something back.  
  
Despite it all, this was still business  
  
"Why use the cover of Cuban gunboats?"  
  
The woman recovered herself, "contrary to what Mr. Tuttle has told you, the boats are Cuban. What he doesn't know is that Cuba has always harbored ETA members. After all, Jai Alai came to this country through Cuba. However, the number of declared members residing there is minute, they're only using gunboats now because they figured out a way to pick off defectors here in the U.S. and Cuba just happened to be convenient," she finished off her drink.  
  
"So the problem isn't here...." Courtney nearly whispered that.  
  
"No, it's not. But it's not in Cuba either. The defectors are aware of what's going on now, we may have a few more bodies in the next couple of days, but the gunboats won't be a concern for much longer. You need to take this fight to Spain," she was sliding a pack of Marlboro's out of her purse as she said that.  
  
Wayne watched her light her butt and exhale the smoke that just filled her lungs. His furrow deepened, "if you know all of that, then why were we called down here?"  
  
The woman took another drag, "because we've only just figured all this out, you two were just barely behind us, which I must say is pretty good in keeping up with Intel. However, if what you really mean is why GI Joe was called in, then well," her cigarette hung on her lip as she searched through her purse. She pulled a piece of material from her bag and tossed it onto the table, just in front of the soldiers. She also pulled a card from a case and slid it up beside it. "You'll need me in Spain," she said that as she walked away, the smoke from her cig trailing behind her.  
  
It was Beach who took hold of the blue material in front of him. He slowly pulled the thick material apart to reveal the Basque's new banner.  
  
A red snake.  
  
Cobra. 


	6. Log 5: Lullaby

Emakume

Log 5: Lullaby

So let all your pain

Sleep within the husha-by

The grace of the godland

Grace of the godland

Grace of the godland is near...

So close to you

-

13:45 Zulu

Zaragoza Air Base: City of Zaragoza; Zaragoza, Spain

Zaragoza sat halfway between Madrid and Barcelona. Though it was still a good ways way from the Basque countryside, it was the closest they could get in order to set up an HQ.

Other Joes would be sent to the area shortly to help in the investigation and for safety. After his report, Duke had also ordered a small strike force to patrol the waters between the US and Cuba, but they could only sit out there for so long. Hurricane James was already moving through the Cayman Islands and heading steadily toward them. It would only be a matter of time before they'd start feeling the feeder bands and would have to pull out.

Beach Head flipped the business card he'd acquired a few nights ago, careful not to bend the thin cardstock with his fingers as he leaned back in the office chair he sat in.

Sophia Txomin.

That was the woman's name. Before their flight to Spain he'd contacted Duke about the situation, about the Basque ETA and Cobra's involvement. He had been ordered to go to Spain along with Cover Girl and get a grasp on what was happening there before any other contact with Txomin. At that point in time how she had gotten her hands on the piece if banner that she'd give them was still in question. And whether she was really an agent for the ETA trying to throw them off the sent or whether she was legit was also still in question.

And then Mainframe had called him.

She was a marine as she claimed, Capitan Sophia Txomin, codename: Emakume, to be proper. Born and raised in south Florida; joined the marine's ROTC unit at Columbia University, not a stain on her record. Why she felt they'd need her here had weighed on his mind during the flight overseas, but when they'd landed, when Blaine had filled him in on the last tid bit of information he'd found on her, it all became clear.

Last year she'd been forced to retire due to injuries she'd acquired from an ETA bombing in Madrid. The Marine Corp had moved her up rank and used her as a spy in the Basque country because she was the only member on staff that could speak the Basque language fluently. She and other Marines had been either killed or seriously injured due to a bad call by her CO, whom she advised to pull back. She had claimed that Cobra was involved but the mishap had pulled all military forces back.

And so that was how she'd gotten the banner.

And that was why she wanted them dealt with.

From where he sat, through the pane of glass in front of him, and just out in the distance he could see the faint outline of it. Of the sculpture of Christ that watched over Barcelona, arms out stretched and welcoming an embrace. The Basque country was just out of sight of it.

And that was why it was a Godless land.

-

16:39 Zulu

Ferry Boat: Balearic Sea; Barcelona, Spain

The Spanish Prime Minister had been in hiding since the attempt on his life only a few short months before. The ETA was blamed, or rather Cobra was responsible for the attempted assassination, so he was held in an undisclosed location until the Spanish Government felt it was safe for him to return to the public light.

They couldn't have picked a worse time.

For his return to power, Jose Maria Aznar was slated to christen a club opening on the island of Ibiza. The election year was rolling around and the fact that he'd be making an effort in popular culture would look good to the young people of Spain. Or so his advisors said.

Beach Head and Cover Girl went to Barcelona where they took a ferry over to the Balearic Islands. Ibiza, or Eivissa as the natives call it, was the second smallest in the chain of four. They were also told that if they thought Vegas was Sin City, then Ibiza was the last stop before hell. Partygoers were feed drugs to keep them going and some of the nicest homes on the island were whorehouses, things that may be illegal were generally ignored; however possession of advertisement was a law readily enforced.

They were to rendezvous with Txomin at club Pasha where she would give them further information.


	7. Log 6: The Disco Tech is Calling You

Emakume

Log 6: The Disco tech is Calling You

Dance.

It's all I wanna do.

Ammo,

Bijou, bijou,

The Discothèque is calling you

* * *

02:14 Zulu

Club Pasha: Balearic Islands; Ibiza, Spain

At concerts she was used to the notion of band worship, but this was different. The band was removed but the songs were there, different in the creative styling of who was spinning, and for this generation of youth, for this massive it was the worship of the DJ that sat at the epicenter.

These twenty-something's were much different then when Courtney Krieger was a misguided youth.

Pasha was hard to get a grasp on. The constant pulse of the strobes overhead mixed with a rainbow of colored lights and moving bodies made it hard to get a fix on anything. She could hardly see Wayne beside her, who watched the dancers on stage gyrate to the bass booming from the speakers around them with a scowl. If not for the familiar warmth of his body and the sharp smell of his aftershave she wouldn't have known he was there.

He tried to say something to her but she couldn't hear him, and she couldn't see his lips to read them.

The crowd around them cheered as the high pitch siren like sound of some acid house song ripped through the club. Giant screens dropped down to cover the far walls as the wail of the song continued. When the bass dropped, when she felt the boom of it in her bones, the screens lit up, the strobes blinked so that the massive looked as though it were moving in slow motion, and what played on the screens stopped short of hardcore porn.

This really was the island of sin.

And what bothered her was that she kind of liked it.

Krieger stiffened when she felt a hand run along her shoulder blades. "You almost look comfortable here.... Cover Girl," she snapped her around.

Txomin.

The raven hared woman winked, a lazy smile on her red lips and a cocktail in one hand. Wayne had seen her before his partner had; he had yet to wipe the scowl from his face. It deepened when she looked up at him. Txomin causally glanced around her before she spoke again.

"We can't talk here, follow me."

It was Sneeden's turn to stiffen when she took hold of his forearm to urge him forward. There was no way they'd make it through the massive otherwise, and Beach instantly took hold of Courtney's hand, making a human chain between the three of them led by Sophia who held her cocktail at head level and lightly moved with the music.

She led them to a VIP room at the back of the club; the rooms beside it opening and closing as young people went in and out of them, going in sober but coming out wiping their noses or grinding their teeth. She knocked in a sequence that was quickly returned before the door opened hesitantly.

They moved inside.

The room had been converted into a make shift base of operations. A hand full of Spanish police officers stood at ready in riot gear; black heavy armor with the word "policía" written on the backs of their vests. One of them sat at a small computer terminal, video feed from surveillance cameras on the screen. The Spanish army and secret service flanked the prime minister who was currently being held in another room, which was on the monitor along with video from different parts of the club. Sophia moved up toward the monitor and looked it over; her body clad in spiked black boots and leather pants, a loose black top hung off of her shoulders.

"Aren't you a bit old to be trying to blend in with the kids?" there was just something about her that Beach found shady. Maybe it was her lackadaisical way of taking care of things, or maybe it was the fact that she always had a drink in hand.

"And you're a bit far from the woods, aren't you country boy?" she was still staring at the screen when she said that. "Pasar a Cámara empaqueta dos por favor," she directed the computer's operator.

He switched to camera two as she had asked.

"I got a tip from a friend of mine in Bilbao," she took a sip of her whiskey, "he said the ETA was sending a handful members here tonight," her eyes narrowed at the screen.

"Possible shooters on the floor? Why aren't there any guards posted at the entrance inspecting people as they come in?" Cover Girl moved to Txomin's side.

Sophia smirked, "because this is Europe, honey, and an island that doesn't give a fuck about what's across the water."

She straightened as she felt Wayne move up behind her, "right there," he reached across her shoulder and touched his finger to the screen. "Right there," the young man he pointed out had a tattoo the was barely visible from the cameras, but there was no mistaking it, it was a red cobra.


End file.
